


Design for Living

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marriage is hard. Mary finds a way to make it easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Design for Living

Marriage was difficult. Mary had always known that, even if others were loath to admit it. 

Her family had been right; she did love Henry. He was charming and witty, and they made a handsome pair. Bedroom activities, when Henry was halfway sober, were thrilling, miles ahead of what she'd experienced with poor floundering, flopping Tony Gillingham. Mary and Henry shared many friends and most of their interests, and they were united in the decision not to have children. 

But that didn't mean everything was perfect. There were aspects of marriage Mary could easily have lived without. Being met with her husband's sighs and petulance when Mary had to get out of bed early for an important meeting with the tenants. Needing to leave a prize sow mid-farrow because Henry was racing at Butlin's and, although he said he didn't mind, Mary didn't want him to be without a cheering section. Being forced to fend off drunken slobbering and pawing after Henry had been out celebrating a win, and all Mary wanted to do was sleep. 

_It would be easier_ , Mary thought sometimes, _if there were more people in a marriage, to share the load._ But of course such a thought was nonsense.

Henry had been a very good sport about moving to Downton Abbey. He had brought a number of cars with him, and he and Tom spent countless hours holed up in the garage they'd made out of a former stable building. Mary went down there one evening, to tell Henry to get ready for dinner, when she opened the door and stopped dead.

The bonnet--and Mary was proud she'd learned this motoring term--of one of the cars was propped open, but nobody was paying the least bit of attention to the engine. Instead, Tom was leaning with his back against the side of the car, his eyes shut. Henry--Mary's lawfully wedded husband, Henry Talbot--was pressed tightly up against him, his body between Tom's legs and Tom's arms around his shoulders. Tom's hands clutched at Henry's coverall, crushing creases into the heavy fabric. Most stunning of all, Tom and Henry were kissing.

Not chaste, brotherly kisses, which would have been astonishing enough. Rather, Tom and Henry were engaged in a passionate open mouthed assault that spoke of lust and impatience in equal measures. It was a situation Mary knew well when it came to Henry, who always wanted more, more, more, but she had never seen darling Tom in such a state. She could scarcely believe her eyes. She stared, paralyzed, until a hot ball of anger began to form deep inside her. 

_How dare he._ Mary clenched her fists at her sides, even as Tom groaned into Henry and Henry grunted, "Christ, Tom," in return. _How dare they._ Her husband and her brother, so-called. Nobody made a fool of Mary, nobody showed her disrespect and got away with it. This, this...infidelity was as disrespectful as it was possible to get. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was about to say but knowing it would end her marriage and her relationship with Tom in one fell swoop. She squared her shoulders. Just as she was about to let loose whatever words sprang to her lips, she stopped. In an instant, the anger fizzled out, extinguished by the one emotion that defined Mary more than any other: cool, rational pragmatism. 

Divorce had never been an option. Divorce on these grounds would ruin all of them. She couldn't have that. Not for herself, not for George and Sybbie, and not, she found, for Henry and Tom. She loved Henry. She loved Tom, in a different way, but it was love nonetheless.

Mary stepped back, literally and figuratively, moving into the shadows outside the garage door. Slowly, an idea began to form. It was a shocking one. Daringly modern, like something out of a Noel Coward play, but Mary had never shied from modernity. And this, unlike bobbing one's hair or riding astride, would be a private affair, a development known only to the three of them. She certainly wouldn't tell Edith, or Mama and Papa. Or Granny.

Mary grinned at the thought of the Dowager's expression, raising a hand to stifle the giggle she feared would erupt. It didn't. The solution was ideal, but Mary had to present it in just the right way if she were to get what she wanted. _Fortunately_ , Mary thought, _I am an expert at getting what I want._

When she was ready, Mary knocked loudly on the door. "Henry? Are you there?" She waited an unnaturally long moment, then went inside.

Tom was bent over the bonnet, his face hidden. Henry lounged against the car as if he hadn't a care in the world. The only hint as to what they'd been doing was a subtle swelling to Henry's lips, unnoticeable to anybody but the person who knew Henry best. He smiled widely and said, "Hello, Mary." _You're good_ , Mary thought, too admiring to even feel irritated by it. 

"Hello, Henry. Hello, Tom." 

"Mary," Tom said without moving, his voice muffled by machinery. 

"Do stand up, Tom. I would much prefer to speak to your face."

Henry's expression changed. Again, it was subtle, almost invisible. Mary could feel her husband's eyes on her as Tom stood.

If Henry was masterful at hiding what they'd been up to, then Tom was just the opposite. It would have been obvious to a nun. Tom's lips were dark red, his eyes were bright and a deep blush stained his throat and cheeks. Mary felt a surge of affection towards him, coupled with a sense of relief. _At least I know they haven't been keeping it from me for long,_ she thought. Clearly, Tom wasn't able to hide much. They would have to work on that.

"I've come to invite you to dinner in York," Mary said. She'd had no such intention when she arrived here, but now, it seemed a brilliant plan. Dinner at a discreet restaurant would be far more conducive to private discussion than shouting across the family dining table. And if the discussion went well, then there was nothing more natural for a married couple than to spend a spontaneous night in a nearby hotel. If that married couple's dear brother chose to take a room in the same hotel, then what was wrong with that? 

"Both of us?" Henry asked. Mary caught his gaze and held it. 

"Yes, why not?" She smiled. "Tom is a good friend of ours. He's been part of our relationship since the very beginning, haven't you, Tom?" It was cruel, a little, but Mary couldn't resist. She glanced over. 

"Well, ah, I suppose, I, I, I..." 

It was Henry who put him out of his misery. "Tom was the one who brought us together. We will always be indebted to him for that."

"You're quite right, Henry. I do hope we'll all be very good friends for a very long time. For all our sakes."

"As do I," Henry said. He understood, she knew it. This easy, wordless communication was one of the chief benefits of marriage, and one of the elements Mary enjoyed the most. "What do you say, Tom?" 

Tom looked between them, as if he suspected he was missing something. "Ah...all right?" 

Mary nodded, as if they had just reached a momentous decision. They nearly had. "Wonderful. I'll just go and change. I can trust the two of you to sort out a car, I'm sure." She turned and left. Henry was in agreement; Tom would come around. While this had the potential to complicate things immensely, Mary didn't think it would. _My marriage,_ Mary thought, happily, _will be so much easier._ And, while she had no proof yet, she did not have the slightest doubt that life was about to become immeasurably happier for all three of them.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the Noel Coward play Mary mentions, about a "complicated" relationship between two men and a woman. We'll say she and Henry saw it in New York, as it was considered too risque to be shown in London until 1939.


End file.
